I'm Here, I'm Okay
by Areias
Summary: After A4, after everyone was brought back, Tony and Bruce devised a memory suppressant in hopes of sparing Peter from the trauma. But when that stopped working, Tony and Peter must learn to heal together. [Written several months ago but never realized I didn't post this on FF]
1. Falling Awake

Peter spent most of the first week sleeping. He was awake for only an hour or two, here or there, which he spent in some kind of discombobulated stupor. He was faintly aware of Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner running constant tests on him, and May to their side — watching, worrying, crying.

Peter didn't quite understand everything just yet. The last thing he really remembered was jumping through a bunch of magical, well, portals (but they were all yellow, instead of one blue one yellow) and kicking some tall purple alien called Thanos. After that, it was just fragmented images that refused to come together to form a coherent reel, and faded sensations — pain, fear, discomfort; some flashy lights, loud noises.

And then there was just darkness — darkness, silence, and terror.

Objectively, Peter knew what had happened. He'd managed to glimpse pictures and videos of the Dusting, as the media called it, because it was practically unavoidable. He saw people just collapsing, disintegrating, fading away. It horrified him, yet fascinated him more — was that what he'd experienced?

But then May found out he'd been watching those news reports and just _freaked_ out, and when she freaked out, Peter freaked out. To make things worse, apparently May and Ms. Potts — Mrs. Stark, rather — were on a private number basis now. May called her, and an hour later the TV was removed from his room, leaving Peter with nothing but the impenetrable darkness of his memories.

Peter tried to pierce that oblivion which surrounded him; tried to force his mind to remember. But the more he tried, the more tired he felt, and before long he would get a massive headache. It actually got so bad one time that he puked, which almost gave May a heart attack. So after that he just stopped.

So Peter started asking questions. He wanted to know how and why the Dusting happened, and why it happened to _him_, and why he didn't remember any of it. He first tried May, but gave up because she kind of just sobbed and touched his face and refused to answer, and Peter wound up crying with her without really knowing why, and later it just became too difficult to ask her anything. Then he tried Happy, who he heard had shared the same experience — except, like him, Happy didn't remember much of it. Finally he tried Mrs. Stark, but in the few instances when she did drop in, she was so brisk and business-like that Peter never really worked up the nerves to broach the topic.

Which left the man himself, Tony Stark. After all, if anyone knew about the Dusting, it had to be the guy who ended up bringing about the Reversal, right?

Peter knew he dropped by, because May said as much, and because sometimes when he woke up, he could kind of retrace the sensation of fingers in his hair, or a soft low voice, or his hand being held but not having the strength to squeeze back. The problem was, Peter could never catch the man when he was actually awake and lucid. This went on for a day or two until Peter finally gave up, and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to get out of bed one day with enough strength to stay awake for more than two hours, and everyone was going to give him _answers_.

There were all sorts of lines and fluids going into him, but on the fifth day Peter was finally allowed to eat through his mouth, after confirming for the sixth time that, yes, he farted that morning. It was a good day, even if May's meatloaf had to be ground into pulp before anyone let Peter ingest it. Peter even stayed awake long enough to watch the sunset.

Peter woke up the next day to a beaming, tearing face. He squinted, still groggy, and was suddenly dragged to a sitting position.

"Careful with him," he heard someone say, before he was crushed in a hug.

"Ned," he croaked in belated recognition, wrapping his right arm around the much larger boy.

Ned didn't really say anything. Just sort of sob-babbled about how he's missed him, about everything that has happened, and asking whether or not this meant he was now a year above Peter.

"Hey," Peter said as he patted his best friend on the back. "Hey, Ned."

"And me?" came a quiet, snarky voice.

Peter turned his head to see MJ, standing about three feet from the bed. She smiled and gave him the finger, like her usual aloof self, but it was completely unsuccessful because she's got tears streaming down her face, and her eyes were the level of puffy you'd only get after literal _days_ of crying.

Peter felt his heart lurch. With some effort, he lifted his left arm in invitation.

MJ hesitated a little. But then she shrugged and rushed forward and buried her face in Peter's shoulder, and he pressed both of them close, and the three of them shared the warmest, most awkward group hug in the history of group hugs.

They ended up spending three days at the compound. Peter tried his best to be a good host — he played board games and cards when his brain could handle it, and binged movies when he couldn't. They chatted to catch up to a _year's_ worth of events. It was still hard to wrap his mind around it sometimes — to Peter, it had only been a couple days; to his friends, it had been a gruesome, hopeless year.

All the same, they never asked him about what actually happened, on _that_ day. And when he tried to ask them, they just looked at each other uncomfortably and changed the topic. Peter tried to not be bothered by it, but it gnawed at him, especially as his body gained strength and he had more hours each day to think about it. Yeah, it was really good to see his friends and hear about their lives, but he was _so_ done with everyone keeping secrets from him.

* * *

It wasn't a sudden thing. Mostly fleeting images — being punched, being thrown down to the ground, trying to get some metal gauntlet off. Saving aliens. It came to him in dreams at first, which he desperately grasped at when he woke up. He was almost afraid they wouldn't come back, but they did, and grew clearer, stronger. Before long, he was able to recollect bits and pieces even when he was awake.

Peter was absolutely thrilled. He started to push into that boundary again, even if each attempt still left him aching and nauseous. Slowly, the mist in his mind begrudgingly retreated, giving Peter back his precious memories one image at a time. His physical condition seemed to be coming back at an exponential rate as well, and with each passing day he felt more like himself. He also resolved to keep his recovery from everyone else, which admittedly made him feel a little bad, but _they_ had brought this upon themselves by being so secretive in the first place.

Then, ten days after the Reversal, it happened for the first time.

Peter had been dreaming about that day again. He went through the events relaxed and comfortable, like watching a favorite film for the tenth time, or like taking the backseat as his body took him on a wild but predictable rollercoaster ride. He saw himself notice the giant donut ship appear above Manhattan, saw Ned distracting everyone so he could go and help. Mr. Stark was already on the scene, because obviously he would be, fighting some Draconian rip-off from Dungeons and Dragons. Before they could finish the fight, though, Peter was told to save a wizard with a necklace (because D&D, why not).

He knew what would happen next. He got beamed up to the space ship. Mr. Stark got a bit mad. They saved the wizard. Mr. Stark _made him an actual Avenger!_ But then they crashed the ship, and met up with some dude from Missouri, a really scary antenna alien lady, and The Rock but with tattoos. Mr. Stark never quite explained why they needed to stop this guy called Thanos, but everyone knew it was for the good of the universe, and Peter gave it his all.

Peter liked these dreams. He was pretty cool in these dreams — he was brave, he fought hard, he saved people. He was the embodiment of what Spider-Man was supposed to be, through and through. He sat back and let the dream take him to the big fight, the one with everyone pinning the alien down and trying to take his gauntlet. They almost had it, but the dude from Missouri heard something about someone called Gamora, and everything went into chaos. Peter didn't blame him, though — he knew he wouldn't have kept his cool either, if he came face to face with Uncle Ben's murderer.

He expected the dream to stop after that. They always did, and he'd always wake up, wanting to live in it for a while longer. So when it continued after Thanos disappeared in a portal, Peter was confused. He watched as the dream took him through brand new memories, of the moments after the battle; he was helping Mr. Stark get back up to his feet, they were taking stock of their options on the alien planet…

That was when he realized he was going to get his memories back, the rest of it, or however much he could take. He almost let out a whoop of delight.

Then the alien antenna woman disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Peter didn't even have time to feel shock when, in barely ten seconds, The Rock and the dude both disappeared.

He didn't even have time to notice the wizard disappearing.

Because he knew he was. He knew with every atom of his being, every hair telling him danger, _danger_, _**danger**_ he was going to die, he was going to disappear, like everyone else, and he hadn't even had time to call home to May to let her know he was okay, nor to respond to that kiss MJ had given him, and it was danger danger _DANGER_, and Peter didn't know where he was going, it was dark and there was —

Oh, god. Oh no. Oh no, no, he could feel it, his fingertips, his body was trying to hold itself together, but he could feel the molecular structure of himself disintegrating, he wanted to fight it, he _needed_ to fight it, he had to see his friends, he had to see May, he wanted to spend more time with Mr. Stark, he'd just become an _Avenger_ for crying out loud, but it was massive, empty, abysmal, something like Hell made manifest and Peter didn't want to go, he didn't want to be alone —

Suddenly he was hugging Mr. Stark, just holding on to him like he was the last solid thing in the world, like he was the life line, the only hope — hanging on by the last thread. The man said something to him, and Peter begged, he begged, he didn't want to go, he wanted to stay in a world where there were so many more things to do, stuff to talk about, cool things to invent…

And Mr. Stark held him, but Peter's body couldn't really register the man's arms because his mind was still screaming danger, like the worst stomach flu and fever and headache all rolled into one. And the _pain_. Peter tried to hold onto Mr. Stark as tight as he could, but he felt every nerve fiber getting torn apart, and it was a billion times worse than when he fell off his bike and broke a bone, a million times worse than that time he got shot in the stomach… He saw the man trying to say something, felt his grip even though his senses were beginning to numb.

That was when Peter saw the _fear_, the helpless, _horrifying_ terror in Mr. Stark's eyes. And that was when he knew no one could ever save him. Not even Iron Man, the genius billionaire who always had a plan. Peter was alone. He would always be alone, he couldn't save everyone and now he couldn't be saved…

Peter's vision was beginning to get blurry — he felt tiny, helpless, unable to do anything, like he had when Uncle Ben died in his arms, when he was crying and trying to staunch the flow of blood. He saw the familiar pitch black boiling below him like a tar pit of all the ugliest memories he ever had, and he tried, he really did, he fought so hard but he couldn't get that gauntlet off in time and because of that he was going to disappear, disappear, disappear…

It was too much. Peter was exhausted. He couldn't fight it anymore, the nightmare that had grabbed hold of his feet and was dragging him down, down to where no one will ever know or remember him. He should have done a better job. He wasn't strong enough. Like that time on the ferry, like this time with the gauntlet — if only he'd been stronger. If only he'd thought things through more. He shouldn't have made May worry. He shouldn't have inconvenienced all his friends. He shouldn't have thought he could possibly help Mr. Stark.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out. He wasn't sure what he was sorry for. Maybe it was for not trying harder. Maybe it was for leaving the people he cared about before he was ready to leave them. Maybe it was for making Mr. Stark worried.

_And if you died… I'd feel like that's on me._

_Ah_, Peter thought. So that's why he apologized. He looked at Mr. Stark and wanted to say more, to say it would never be his fault, to say it has been so much fun being Spider-Man, being _Peter_, with the greatest mentor he could ever hope to have helping him along the way.

_Thank you_, he wanted to say, but he never got the chance.

As his world disintegrated into ash, Peter Parker bolted upright in his bed.

* * *

He tried to hide the incident. The next morning, when May got him breakfast, he smiled and finished it and told her how good it was, but he had to use his other hand just to steady the fork.

The rest of the day he spent watching movies or reading the books MJ brought him. He tried his best to focus, but randomly, again and again, he would find himself back on that desolate planet, the roof and walls collapsing around him, dusted away, and he would be alone, fighting and kicking but still being dragged toward the ultimate doom, helpless.

And then he would snap out of it, panting, his clothes drenched in sweat, his knuckles white on the page. He felt awful because one of MJ's books was ruined this way, the cover torn by his super strength.

"Peter?" May had asked, walking in at that moment. "Is everything okay?"

Peter smiled, hiding the book under his covers. "Yeah. Yeah. That smells delicious, by the way."

May beamed. "It's meatloaf day," she said, setting the tray down. "Honey, are you sure you're alright? You look pale."

"Absolutely fine," Peter said with forced joviality. "I'm getting better every day!"

He was lucky he didn't have other visitors today, for it drained him to act. He managed to wolf down the lunch in record time, and convince May that he needed a nap. After she left, he went to the bathroom and threw everything up. He didn't understand why it disturbed him so much. _It's all over_, he told himself, splashing water on his face. _All in the past_.

When evening came, he told May he had to go to sleep early. It felt rotten to lie to her, but he had no choice. He didn't know what to do, what was happening, and the last thing he wanted was for her to worry. He needed to be strong for her. He hugged her good night, and spent the next three hours curled up in his blankets, awake and shivering.

From that day forward, Peter became afraid to fall asleep.


	2. Pitter Patter

Peter figured it was normal for him to take a sudden interest in his syllabus. After all, senior year was starting in less than a month, Reversal or no, and it's been a long while since he'd done any school work. He had SATs and college applications to worry about; he had to hit the ground running.

… at least that's what he told May. That's what he told himself. That was the excuse he'd grabbed onto when he holed himself up in the compound library that day with an entire pot of the blackest, most disgusting coffee he'd ever tasted. It gave him palpitations and made him all jittery, and he had the urge to wash his tongue after each gulp, but it did its job—it kept him awake.

He decided to start with the lessons he'd missed; the ones that happened after the Dusting. Spanish. English Lit. Chemistry. Ned had let him borrow notes. He flipped through his friend's sometimes chaotic scribbles, chuckling when he saw the small doodles on the margins. Then he stopped.

In front of him was an entire page filled with blotched drawings of the Spider-Man logo. Ned must have drawn the same thing twenty, thirty, _fifty_ times, then redrawn it and erased, redrawn and erased, until even the untouched spots of the page was a dull uniform gray. Some pencil-marks had torn through the paper.

Peter sat very still, and in the desk next to his he saw Ned, sitting alone at the lab bench—at _their_ lab bench—sketching out the logo again and again until he got it right, until he didn't feel like he was about to cry anymore, and it was Peter's fault, Peter who left, Peter who'd told him to distract the whole bus…

Peter slammed the notebook shut, his breathing fast and loud and ragged in the empty space. The table shook under his strength, and he was glad Mr. Stark had built everything with superhuman users in mind.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

When he felt himself calm down enough, he put the notebook back with the dozen others. He would return them all later. He groped at the sea of textbooks and grabbed the first one he could reach.

Chemistry? Good. He liked chemistry.

He liked chemistry because he liked working in a world where he was the master, where he knew how things were supposed to be. A reaction was always guaranteed given the correct reagents, catalysts, and conditions. There were no surprises, no hollow pit lurking behind the mundane. He found the last chapter he remembered learning about, and dove head first into the work.

He liked chemistry, because his hand shook less when he wrote out the equilibriums.

* * *

He managed to finish most of the oxidation-reduction study questions by the time noon rolled around, and decided to give himself a break. He gulped down another cup of the now-cold coffee and walked over to the window. The sky was set thick with grey clouds, billowing and churning with the hot, saturated air of a summer thunderstorm. Peter thought the weather fitted him; restless and anxious without reason, boiling without a true breaking point, like something waiting to happen. He sat down on the nearest couch and stared, mesmerized.

It didn't take long for the rain to come. Low rumbles of thunder echoed through the air, audible even through the state-of-the-art sound insulation walls. He listened for a while to the pitter patter of the rain on the windows, observing each droplet of water as they slid down the glass, before closing his eyes and wishing he could breathe the air outside, something to tell him his world was real.

He hated how he was trembling. He hated how clear his thoughts were, now that he wasn't under the strange haze which clouded his mind over the past ten days. He hated the way he now found new meaning in May's hugs, in his friends' looks—he had broken them, god, he had been _dead_ and for a whole _year_ and when he came back he didn't even stop to think how much that had affected them and only wanted his _stupid_ _memories_ back like a selfish asshole—

He hopped onto the ceiling to stop himself from punching anything. He walked the tiles, touched the lights with his feet to feel their heat. The storm geared up to full force outside, and he plastered himself to the glass, still upside-down, staring as if he could lose himself in the heart of chaos.

"Take it back," he said, his breath misting up the glass. "I don't want to remember_. I don't want to remember_."

Only the pitter-patter answered him. Always the pitter-patter, and the thunder, and the deafening guilt.

* * *

Mrs. Stark and Happy joined them for dinner that night, and Peter wished they hadn't. They gave him hugs and asked about his recovery. Peter smiled and told them he was getting stronger, and they talked about the crazy weather, and going back to school, and the meal.

Peter wondered how he hadn't noticed it earlier—they were all talking like they were navigating a landmine. Mentions about the wedding got glossed over. Any specifics about the prior year was a big no-no. More than once he tried to ask Happy about the Dusting, and what he'd felt, but each time that conversation got shut down before Peter could even blink.

For a brief moment the anger was enough to overpower the great hollow pit. Peter even considered calling them out for it.

_Stop that_, he would say, slamming the table. They would all fall silent and look at him. _Don't you see?_ he would continue, almost seething. _I remember. I remember feeling my fingers turning into dust. I remember being scared, being terrified, and it doesn't help that I don't know what happened to me, so maybe we should just fucking talk about it so I don't have to be scared anymore—_

"Seconds, Peter?" May asked, heaping on another slice of pork chop before he could answer. Peter stared at the piece of meat on his plate, before mumbling a thank-you.

Happy commented on how her cooking was better than he'd remembered, and May smiled so warmly that Peter wanted to cry. He dug his nails in his palm, hard enough that he was sure he drew blood. The fork bent in his grip.

_I'm never going to tell them_, he thought, suddenly exhausted. He looked around, at May, at Mrs. Stark, at Happy. They were laughing about some anecdote. He made himself laugh too, which was easier than he'd expected.

Because in that moment, in a room filled with people who loved him… he felt utterly alone.

And that was kind of funny.

* * *

He hadn't planned on sleeping, but he'd ran out of coffee, and it'd started raining again. The chorus of raindrops was like some sort of lullaby tugging at his eyelids. Freshly showered, he found himself more relaxed than he meant to be as he laid in darkness on his bed.

Before he knew it, he was on the dust planet. He watched in abject horror, unable to stop anything, shivering even in his dreams. He was fighting, again; smashed down, again; thrown off, again. He was losing, again; weak, again; worthless, again.

In pain, again. Hopeless, again. Trying to say sorry, again.

He was disappearing.

_Again_.

He couldn't escape. He knew this was a dream, he had to escape, but he couldn't, and it was sucking him in, down, away. He saw May, sobbing and sobbing over his picture. He saw Ned drawing Spider-Man logos in his notes. He saw MJ tearing out another page in her sketchbook. He watched Mr. Stark's face disappear, again, again, _again_.

They all reached for him, grabbing at him with their hands. _How could you leave us?_ they shouted at him. It's your fault, _your_ fault—

Peter tried to reach back. _No_, he tried to say. _No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I tried_. His fingers brushed May's. He tried to catch her but she dissolved into dust, and then Ned dissolved, and then MJ dissolved, and he was grasping at the void—

Someone yanked on his arms. It was Mr. Stark.

"You're alright," he said.

_No_, Peter thought. _No, no, I'll hurt you too, sir. No, stay away, sir, stay_ away—

Mr. Stark grabbed his hand, but Peter could feel himself disappearing again, and Mr. Stark was disappearing too. He begged, he didn't want to go, he wanted to stay here, stay alive—

He screamed into the cool conditioned air of his room, thrashing and struggling. Something was holding him, tight and close, but it was terrifying and he didn't want to go—

"Pete, Pete, listen to me, you're okay," a voice said, urgently. "Kid. No, you're okay, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere—"

"I don't want to go, please, Mr. Stark—"

"I know, I know," the voice said, calm but with an undercurrent that threatened to break, "I'm right here, you're not going anywhere, you hear me? You're _not going anywhere_."

Slowly Peter's vision kicked in. He was in his bed, trembling, shivering. His cheeks were wet. He smelled the soft scent of flowers and daisies, he'd always thought it was an unexpected smell for such a brilliant energetic man—

"Mr. Stark?" he whispered.

"I'm here," the man replied. "I'm here, Pete, you're okay."

"Mr. Stark," Peter said, and this time his voice broke, and he hugged the warm body in front of him with all his might. Mr. Stark's hand rubbed circles on his back, gentle and soothing, just like how Uncle Ben used to when Peter came home bullied.

"It's me, kid. I'm here. You're here. You're okay."

It was still raining, and Peter was glad because the sound and the darkness afforded him some dignity. Mr. Stark was saying into his ear to breathe in, breathe out, and Peter heard the man doing so with him. Peter trembled as he focused on the task, one at a time. In, out. In, out. Finally his heartbeat returned to a more or less normal pace.

He felt Mr. Stark letting go, and panic welled up in him again.

"Easy, kid," the man said softly. "Easy. I'm not leaving ya. Just gonna take off the armor." He chuckled. "You'd have crushed me to pulp if I didn't wear it."

Peter panted and made some incomprehensible sounds before letting go slowly. There was a sort of scuttling noise, and then Peter felt Mr. Stark's skin soften as the armor retreated to his chest piece. No longer pressed against each other, the arc reactor cast everything in a comforting blue.

"You gotta promise me you're not gonna squash me, Pete," the man said softly, ruffling Peter's hair.

Peter didn't respond, just nodded and hugged back, gentler this time. Mr. Stark kept a hand in his hair, running in soothing circles. Peter laid his head on his mentor's shoulder. There was still a lump in his throat, though as the minutes passed he felt it dissolving little by little.

"I'm sorry," he whispered when he thought he could trust his voice.

Mr. Stark froze. His hand stopped, his muscles went rigid. Peter heard the man's breath quicken, and his arms wrapped a bit tighter around him. It took a minute before Mr. Stark relaxed again, more or less.

"Don't say that," he said, with such gravity Peter was almost sure he was angry. "I don't—I can't hear you say that. Not right now, probably not in the next few years."

"But—"

"Just… don't, kid. Okay?"

Peter nodded. "Okay."

They were silent for some more minutes, listening to the rain, before Mr. Stark took a breath.

"When did you remember?"

Peter bit his lips. "Last—no, two nights ago. It was… it was in a dream, and I always remembered parts of it, but that time I felt—I saw myself—"

"Shh. Neither of us needs that right now." Peter felt Mr. Stark shake his head. "Why didn't you tell someone? Tell May? Tell me?"

There was a tiny spark of indignation when Peter answered. "I hardly ever see you," he pointed out. "You haven't—I think this is the first time you even _talked_ to me, since…" he trailed off, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

The man winced. "I know," he said. "I was trying to keep you safe."

Peter didn't immediately understand. "Keep me safe—what? By ignoring me?"

"From your memories, Pete," Mr. Stark said quietly. "From dreams. From _this_. I thought—I thought if you saw me, you might remember again."

"But you don't know that! I mean I asked Happy and he said he doesn't remember anything, so I don't get why you thought _I_ would remember—"

"_Because I saw it with my own fucking eyes!_" Mr. Stark snapped, his voice suddenly high and close to shattering.

Peter was silent, too stunned by the tone to respond. Mr. Stark was panting.

"I saw it, Pete," he said, hoarse. "And yours… yours was different than everyone else's. I don't know—I can't explain it. But you _knew_ what was going to happen. You felt it, you lasted longer, you were in _pain_. And I knew, I _knew_ when you came back you would remember it, and I just didn't want you to feel that… ever, ever again."

Peter felt the trembles in the man's frame. "I just—I failed to protect you the first time. And I tried to, this time, but now… I just failed again."

Then Mr. Stark let out a sort of guttural, breathy sound, and moments later Peter realized it was a sob.

"Oh," he said stupidly, not knowing where to place his hands. "Mr. Stark, no, it's not your fault, I didn't—I'm sor—er, I mean—"

He could only gape as the man broke down in front of him, and then it was _Mr. Stark_ who clung to him, _Mr. Stark_ who grasped at the his back, desperate for the warmth, the tangible _there_-ness… not ash, not ash, _never again ash_.

Peter wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, but finally the man gave a low chuckle, and loosened his embrace around the boy.

"It's alright, kid," he said. "I'm alright." He shook his head. "Come on, you should go back to bed."

Peter wasn't sure if he could, and the thought of being left alone when Mr. Stark left was more terrifying than he cared to admit. But then the man must have sensed something, because he chuckled.

"Oh, who am I kidding?" he said, ruffling Peter's hair. "I've had attacks too, kid, and if yours are anything like mine, you're not getting another wink of sleep tonight." Even in the darkness, Peter could make out his grin. "What do you say? Let's watch a movie? Your pick."

Twenty minutes later, as the two of them munched on microwaved popcorn in the compound's home theatre, _Beetlejuice_ playing on the screen, Peter felt safe enough to smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," he said.

"No, kid," the man replied, somehow hearing him above the noise of the movie. "Thank _you_."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I originally planned for more chapters, but this seemed like a good place to end. However, while moving this to FFnet I found some WIPs that I think are pretty good, and I'll try to adapt them to this story. Expect an update soon!

I also have a crossover with exclusively MCU characters, set in the world of Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire. Check it out under my profile if that interests you!


	3. A Dollop of Ice Cream

**Written for a fic exchange! For Grace_d.**

* * *

"Kid, I'm buying back the Tower."

Tony hadn't meant to say it. Well, actually he did, but he hadn't meant to say it _now_, when he was standing awkwardly in the doorway, on the way to see Morgan, dressed in sweats damp from his work-out.

Peter's hand stopped. He took a few seconds to look over his work, and evidently decided to call it quits for the day. He closed his biochemistry textbook and whirled around in his chair. He didn't say anything—just looked at his mentor with a slight tilt of his head.

The corner of Tony's lips tugged up a little at the gesture, but the perpetual furrow between his brows only seemed to deepen. The small almost-smile lasted for no longer than a second.

Peter waited, idly tapping his pen on his desk.

They both knew to give each other time.

It's been a month since the kid had gotten his memories back. In a way, Tony was grateful; grateful that the kid hadn't shunned him or shied away from his attempts to help, grateful their movie night hadn't been a desperate one-off for two desperate people clawing at closure. The kid had attended the therapy sessions dutifully, and was gradually getting better, according to daily reports Tony received from the team of child psychologists he'd hired. He'd always read those as soon as possible, as if seeing the words on his holoscreen—'_improving_', '_making progress_', '_we're hopeful_'—could hammer them into reality.

Because sometimes he got the feeling that Peter was… faking it. The kid was _brilliant_, after all—every bit as brilliant as Tony had been at that age, judging from how fast he was blazing through the years' worth of missed schoolwork. He probably had the symptoms of PTSD memorized within the first hour of being told to start therapy, and it wasn't exactly difficult, for someone with an IQ of at least 150, to deceive a few psychologists—especially when they had no clearance on more sensitive information regarding the Blip and the Reversal.

God, Tony still hated that name. Both of those names. It wasn't a blip, like some ridiculous blemish one made on some report or document, like pressing the pen too long or crinkling the paper the wrong way—the kind that made you go _'Oops'_ and nothing more. He felt mocked by the very name: your pain, your suffering, they were trivial. After all, it was just a _blip_. And then there was the _Reversal_. For fuck's sake. He hadn't been reversed, for one, and his kid _most definitely_ had not been 'reversed'. _Reversal my ass_.

Still, Peter hadn't experienced a normal Blip, nor a normal Reversal, it seemed, and wasn't doing much to talk about them either. And, infuriatingly, Tony got it. He knew exactly what it felt like, to want to shut things out, often against your will—it had taken him years before he let the shrinks probe into his messed up mind, no matter how many times he logically told himself that the psychologists were only there to help. He'd been an abysmal patient. It had taken so much work, and so _long_, before he started sharing more about New York, about Ultron, about… _stuff_.

And Peter has only had a month. _Give him time_, Tony would find himself thinking, but still he couldn't help but… worry.

Tony looked at the boy, really studied him. Unkempt dark brown hair, a face that too often faked a smile nowadays, and shoulders that were too young to be so rigid. This was his kid, _his_ _kid_. And despite Tony's recent habit of sneaking into the boy's room late at night, to talk or just hug him or watch a movie, he could sense his kid drifting away.

The only time when the boy seemed to be truly present was during playtime with Morgan. The teen absolutely _adored_ the baby—a sentiment that seemed to be mutual—and Pepper often joked that their daughter's first words would be 'Peter' before long. Tony always made a show of being indignant, because he knew that amused Pepper, but he secretly couldn't care less. He was just glad to see the edge melt away from his kid's gaunt shoulders, if only for half an hour, as he tickled the baby, or talked gibberish to her, or played peek-a-boo.

Plus, was it really so bad for a child's first words… to be her big brother's name?

Tony's breath hitched before he caught himself. Throughout his trance, Peter had stayed quiet, still playing with his pen, and Tony realized the boy had been waiting this whole time for him to elaborate. It took some moments before he regained his train of thought, and then his jaw clenched in that Stark fashion of facing a confession one wasn't quite ready to make.

Tony cleared his throat. He should just come out and say it. Whether or not the kid took him up on that offer… well. That wasn't his decision to make.

"So, anyway… school's starting, as you know, and you'll be moving back to the City."

Peter nodded, patient though puzzled.

And silent. It was the worst part about the memories coming back; how _silent_ his kid became.

Tony gulped and braved on.

"Yeah. Uh, I was wondering if… you and May would like to move in to the Tower… with us?"

Peter blinked. He evidently hadn't been expecting that. He didn't answer immediately, but about three seconds later—probably some of the longest three seconds in Tony's life—he lowered his gaze to the ground.

"I don't know," he said, his voice small. "If May—"

"Of course," Tony cut in, perhaps too abruptly. It took him all his self control to not let his disappointment seep through the cracks of his veneer of calm. "Yeah," he breathed out. "Your old home, your things, your memories with your uncle. Best if you discuss with her first."

Peter looked like he wanted to say something else. He looked like he was hesitating. Or maybe Tony wanted him to look like he was hesitating. In the end, though, the boy simply nodded.

Tony couldn't help himself.

"You'll visit, though?" he blurted.

He didn't have to elaborate. This time, when Peter nodded—and Tony's heart surged as he noticed—it was without hesitation. The gesture was still small and quiet and terse, like the kid's gestures too often are, these days, but it was… _happy_, or so Tony thought. Or so he hoped.

"I'd like that," Peter said, softly. "I'll visit everyday."

"Yes," Tony said, looking out the window to hold back the pressure behind his eyes. The summer sky was spectacularly blue. "Yes, I'd like that, too."

ooo

Two days before Peter and May were due to move back, the kid actually came to Tony with a proposal, though admittedly not one he initially understood.

"Mr. Stark... Can we go get ice cream?"

"I don't do dairy," Tony said, bouncing Mo on his lap. The baby was gurgling, and burping from time to time, though her chubby hands kept trying to reach for the boy. "FRIDAY makes sure the fridge is well-stocked, though; you can—"

"No," Peter said. It was a trick of his, how he could go from innocent and carefree to completely somber, like the flip of a switch. "I mean not at the Compound. Somewhere else. At a Ben and Jerry's shop, maybe."

"Ben & Jerry's, huh," Tony smirked. "You know, they—"

"Named a flavor after you," Peter nodded, and for a moment the world was brightened by his grin.

_That_ was how he wanted his kid. _Smiling_.

The grin faded away as fast as snowflakes touching water.

"Okay," Tony breathed out, forcing himself not to wince. "So, an ice cream extravaganza." Mo squirmed and let out a discontent whine, and Tony absently gave the baby a little rub. "Gotcha. I can have an industrial freezer's worth of all their flavors delivered here within four hours."

"Nono, no," Peter cut in quickly. Absently he touched his fingers to the baby's; she grabbed on with a delighted squeal. "Just… an ice cream _trip_. No extravaganzas, Mr. Stark. Please."

Tony frowned. "I don't get it. What's so different about ordering the ice cream and eating it here? Why does it have to be… at an _actual_ ice cream shop?"

"It's different," Peter replied, offering no further explanation. Instead he said, "It's okay if you don't want to, Mr. Stark."

Tony hated when he did that: so matter-of-fact, like nobody would actually want to, like he didn't expect the answer to be yes. It was different than the bashful bouts of self-doubt the kid used to display, back when he first came back from Germany and was growing into the suit—this was deeper and uglier, like resigning himself to rejection before an attempt was even made.

"I want to," he declared (perhaps too quickly but who cares?). He shook his head and tried again. "I mean, yes. Sure. Let's go, this afternoon. We'll take Mo."

Peter blinked. "Is she ready for ice cream? She's, like, six months old."

"Ten months." Tony said firmly. "Practically one!" He squinted at Peter. "She's ready."

Peter squinted right back. "Are you sure? Shouldn't we ask Mrs—"

"_Don't tell Pepper_."

Peter laughed, which caused Morgan to giggle.

Tony decided he would try to make them laugh at least once every day, for the rest of his life.

ooo

They made their move around three in the afternoon, taking advantage of a conference on Pepper's part and May being too occupied in the kitchen. Normally Tony would insist for their chef to take care of it—as much for hospitality's sake as for protecting everyone's palate (how Peter survived for so long with her feeding him, Tony will never know)—but the ice cream trip notwithstanding, he could tell she needed the space, the distraction, so he'd left her to it. In any event, it worked to their advantage as they executed their plan, which was actually deceptively difficult—grab Morgan, get Morgan ready, grab Morgan's stuff, make sure Morgan doesn't make a fuss, bribe FRIDAY to not give them away, make sure Morgan doesn't make a fuss, dodge anyone who might be there, and make sure Morgan doesn't make a fuss. Despite being armed with three pacifiers (one in use, two others for rotation), a full bag of spare diapers ('_We can't take the half-used bag Mr. Stark, what if we run out?_'), and the spirit of adventure (any sneaking around behind Pepper's back constituted an adventure in Tony's book), by the time they managed to finally make it to the main garage, sleuthing through the immaculate lawn like two burglars and a half—and rather incompetent ones at that—half an hour had passed.

"I hope you realize who all of this is for," Tony huffed, "Mr. Let's-go-to-a-real-Ben-and-Jerry's." He hefted their arsenal of baby items for emphasis. "We could be having ice cream, right now!"

"_You_ were the one who insisted on taking her," Peter deadpanned. "_I_ didn't want to."

Despite the scorn he tried to instill in his voice, the boy's face practically beamed when the pair of tiny hands grabbed at his nose. He blew a bit of air onto the delicate fingers, which elicited a peal of giggles.

Tony grinned. Ostensibly, the kid was on baby-carrying duty because he was the one with super-strength and should do his part to take some weight off a poor old man's back, but Tony hadn't missed the way his eyes lit up when he played with Morgan, the gentle smile on an already gentle face. In another universe, they might've been siblings.

Then again, in another universe, a sixteen-year-old boy wouldn't have felt himself being torn apart, molecule by molecule, only to be brought back again… and remember it.

Tony shook his head. _That's over_, he thought to himself. _Peter's fine_. _We're fine_.

He jogged out onto tarmac.

"Come on, kid," he called back. "We're trying to keep a schedule here! Getting there sometime before sundown would be nice."

Peter made a face and shifted Mo in his arms. The afternoon sun made the two of them squint, and color bounced off their hair and cheeks, vibrant and effervescent like one of those over-saturated photographs you knew were too good to be true, and for a moment Tony could pretend that his kid was whole again.

ooo

"I thought we're trying to keep a schedule."

"We _would _be on schedule if you had stopped objecting to my every decision earlier," said Tony.

"That's cause _no one_ takes a_ Rolls-Royce_ for a _twenty-minute ice cream trip_." said Peter.

"Bah!" said Morgan, then drummed her chubby hands on the kid's chest.

Tony huffed, indignant. "That was only _one _suggestion. You also shut down the Ferrari, the Porsche, the Saleen, and _five_ of the Audis."

Peter looked like he would have thrown up his hands if he weren't holding Morgan. "Well people usually don't take sports cars! Or shiny golden ones! Or shiny green ones! Or just, you know, shiny ones!"

"Nonsense," Tony said. "And here I was thinking I might even let you drive."

A look of pain crossed on the teenager's face. "I don't care," he said, obviously lying through his teeth. "I don't want to be responsible for something worth, like, half of Midtown."

"First, the fact you automatically assumed you were going to crash shows that I made the right call; second, it's not worth half of Midtown. More like a quarter."

Peter rolled his eyes, and Tony laughed.

"Next time, kid."

In the end they took Pepper's dark blue Audi, which was the least conspicuous cars available (complete with the all-important baby seat), and after shutting down another offer to drive from the kid and several concerned questions from FRIDAY, they were off the Compound grounds.

The drive to Albany was a bit over an hour, and by the time they got close, Morgan had long since crashed. Peter was staring out of the window, having grown quieter as the journey went on. He had a hand snaked to the baby seat, where Morgan had grabbed onto two of his fingers like a comfort object. The pacifier bobbed in her mouth as she slept.

It was the first time in a long while that Tony had been 'outside'—_outside_ outside, not in his suit or some drone, among actual people. The fact didn't really sink in until the beautifully nondescript forests of Upstate New York begin to give way to white-or-faded-blue country houses and open fields, then small touristy New-England-esque villages, then finally the rectangular concrete and steel shapes of Albany, poking through the tops of trees.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been outside. That time at Central Park, jogging with Pep? That had been years ago. The occasion just never seemed to called for it: obviously not during the Blip, and certainly not after the Reversal. Anything he needed doing, he hadn't needed to tend to in person. Sometimes he looked back at the man he had been, a decade ago—the playboy decked in golden armor, suave and thriving on media attention—and found himself staring at a complete stranger.

Not that he was complaining. He quite enjoyed his seclusion—or being an antisocial misanthrope, as Rhodey put it—and as he aged, he was content with a smaller and smaller group of close friends and family. He'd once admitted, to his therapist, that there were only five people he loved in the world.

To this day, he maintained that verdict—Pepper, Peter, Morgan, Rhodey, and Happy.

Five.

Five people to keep safe; five people to guard; five people to worry incessantly over.

Five people… like five gaping holes in the impregnable citadel of his heart, five chinks in his immaculate armor.

Five ways he could shatter, if any of them once again turned to dust.

Tony caught himself, and tore his mind away from the ashen planet, two hundred galaxies away. It took him a minute to unclench his muscles, and another for his breathing to return to normal.

_Yeah_, he thought. _Five is enough. Five is __plenty_.

ooo

Peter seemed to have gone back to being himself by the time they pulled up to the small storefront.

"Wow, I haven't been here in _forever_," he announced. "What are you gonna get Mo, Mr. Stark?"

"Dunno, probably something vanilla."

"Yeah, vanilla is good. Get her milk too. I like milk."

Being summer, the store wasn't empty when they entered, though not bustling, thankfully. A girl, no older than Peter looking like she was about to drop on the spot out of boredom, greeted them at the counter: "Welcome to Ben & Jerry's we hope you're having a Ben & Jerry day may I recommend our best-selling sundaes and smoothies our scoops are also on sale four scoops for twelve what can I get you today?"

Tony blinked. "Uhh—"

Peter was, naturally, completely unfazed. He took a cursory glance at the panoply of flavors before he began to rattle off. "Can I have two scoops each of Stark Raving Hazelnuts, Thor's Thundering Toffee, Rocky Rhodes, Hunk-A-Hulk-A Burning Fudge, Strangely Strawberry, Black-coffee Widow, Black Chocolate Panther, and all the rest of the Avengers flavors, plus two scoops of vanilla, milk, and caramel please."

The girl stared at them. Morgan—now in Tony's arms—squealed when she touched the icy glass.

"Jesus, kid."

"I can finish it." Peter turned back to the girl. "Would you like me to repeat it?"

"Ugh, okay. Two of every Avengers flavor," Tony cut in. "Plus milk and vanilla and—"

"Caramel."

"Caramel. And all cups please, we don't want a mess with the cones."

The girl blinked again. Three seconds passed before she finally whipped out her calculator. "Uh, that'll be eighty-four. Also, are you—"

"No," Tony said, fishing out his credit card. "I'm not Tony Stark. Often mistaken as him, I assure you."

Peter sniggered. "Your name is on there," he reminded Tony, his hand already over the counter with a hundred-dollar bill.

Tony gaped. "Wha— Now hold on a second here, I—"

"Let me pay," the kid said.

"No, that's ridiculous. You dragged me all the way out here, you don't get to decide who—"

"_Let me pay_," the kid said. There was something in his eyes that poked at Tony's heart. "Please."

Tony hesitated before he backed down. He took a swiveling glance around the tiny establishment; watched as Peter pocketed the change with a smile, watched as he led them over to a small table, watched as he sat down. Morgan cooed as she explored the texture of the wooden table. Tony waited.

It was only after their ice cream came that Peter seemed to snap out of it. The kid studied the array of cups intently for a moment, before picking the one that was white with light brown stripes.

"Caramel," he said, and dug his spoon into the ball. He picked it up, a large dollop of ice cream on top, and shoved the spoon in his mouth. He closed his eyes.

Morgan was squirming impatiently in Tony's arms, reaching for the colorful assortment before her, but he ignored her for the moment. Peter opened his eyes and, when he grinned, Tony felt the dizzying wave of relief.

"Let's test which one Mo likes best!" Peter suggested. Tony only nodded. He was just glad to have his kid back.

ooo

Being a super-powered teenaged boy, Peter ended up finishing most of the ice cream, professing his love for each and every one of the flavors ('_except Black-coffee Widow—sorry, I don't have anything against her, it's just too bitter—please don't let her know!_'). They had great fun over getting Morgan to decide on her own preference, and things got more than a bit competitive when she showed a preference for Wallcrawler Walnut over Stark Raving Hazelnuts, which spiraled into a debate over whether the flavors were any different anyway, and whether they contained real nuts. Then they talked about the manufacturing process, whether or not babies could have them ('_a bit late to be looking that up, don't you think Mr. Stark?'_), and whether SHIELD received any trademarking fee for them using the Avengers' names ('_because I sure as hell didn't_', Tony huffed).

It happened after Peter finished his twentieth-or-so scoop.

"I remember Ben giving me ice cream," the kid said without preamble. His voice was quiet, and he was staring at the empty cup in front of him. "I guess I must have been five, and my parents had just, you know. I didn't know what was going on. I thought they didn't want me."

Tony went very still.

"Apparently I cried a lot. I don't remember all the crying—May told me I was crying so much I couldn't speak for three days. I kept asking to go home, and they kept saying I had to wait. My mom—well, I don't remember, but apparently she promised to take me out for something yummy, so I had it in my mind that when I finally got something yummy, they'd come back. So then one day Ben asked me what I thought was yummy."

Tony inhaled, shaky. "And you said ice cream."

Peter nodded.

"So he took me for ice cream. I wasn't particularly close with him back then, but I was properly bribed." He chuckled. "Ben said I was a sneaky little tyke."

"I second that," Tony said, and Peter snorted.

"Shut up, Mr. Stark. Anyway, for a whole week Ben took me to this Ben & Jerry's—because it had his name in it, see—down the street after work. May was working two jobs back then so she never had the time. He was really great, told me all sorts of stories about when he grew up with my dad, even if I don't remember most of them now, and it sort of became our thing to have ice cream together and just, talk about stuff."

Tony felt his throat closing in. He didn't want to hear any more of this story, when he knew how it'd end. He wanted to yell at the kid—_you should've told me, you should've told me_—because how the hell was he supposed to know when he had been roped in out of the blue? How the hell was he supposed to follow up on _this?_ How the hell was he supposed to ever live up to what Peter had been searching for, all this time?

He stayed silent—even Morgan stayed silent, sucking on her thumb and watching Peter with her big eyes—and the boy continued, after drawing a trembling breath.

"And then came my sixth birthday. I guess I'd convinced myself that, if my parents weren't coming by my birthday, they were really never going to come back, because they would never miss it. I felt horrible because Ben and May, they'd prepared for so long to give me this great birthday party, and I knew how they were already behind on rent but they still got me a whole fancy ice cream cake and ribbons and everything, but I just couldn't—I couldn't be happy. I thought I'd never be happy again, that maybe being happy meant I didn't care about my parents anymore."

The boy coughed. He grabbed a paper towel from the table and blew into it. Tony wanted to reach forward and hold his hand, or maybe move to his side of the table and hug him, but just when he started, Peter laughed.

"God, I'm sorry," he muttered. "This was supposed to be fun, and now I'm—"

"No," Tony snapped. "Don't you _dare _apologize."

That brought a wan smile. "Yeah. Sorry. I mean… yeah. I guess I should go on. Anyway, after the party, Ben took me aside and kinda just, put the rest of the ice cream cake I didn't finish in front of me. Then he pulled up a chair and ate it with me. I don't remember much, just that I cried a lot that day. But I do remember what he told me."

Peter took a deep breath.

"He told me that, whenever I was feeling bad, I could do one little thing that made me happy, with someone that I cared about by my side—and the happiness would get magnified tenfold, hundredfold, until it overpowered whatever it was that was making me feel sad. And my little thing could be ice cream. Ben & Jerry's, because…"

"Because it's got his name in it," Tony whispered.

The kid snuck a shy glance across the table and nodded, and Tony had half a mind to buy up Ben & Jerry's right then.

"Yeah. And he promised me that, you know, whenever I needed someone to eat ice cream with, he would be there. Because he loved ice cream too." He paused, fiddled with his plastic spoon. "I-uh… I know he's not here anymore. So during, uh, the first few months… I would eat ice cream by myself."

Peter smiled. He smiled softly, fondly, but Tony wondered how many streaks of tears he hid under that expression, how many acres of sand he'd learned to pour over those long-dried river beds; how many gallons of grief had coursed through that small, thin frame, how many times he'd been cracked or broken by loss upon loss upon loss that just kept piling and piling until one day he'd learnt to bury them gently and _smile?_

And Tony knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.

Because he was the same.

He reached across the table and grasped Peter's hand in his. The boy gave a start, but then grasped back. Tony closed and opened his eyes.

"Why did you stop?" he asked. "Eating ice cream, that is. I've never, I mean, on the Baby Monitor and your reports to Happy, I've never—"

"Because you took me to Germany."

Tony's breath hitched.

"Because for once in my life, for once after Ben, I was a part of _something_," Peter continued. "For once I didn't need ice cream to chase after happiness anymore, because happiness was right there, in the suit. Happiness was when you told me I did a good job. Happiness was when I'd stopped Mr. Toomes, and saved people from getting hurt. I didn't need to go to Ben & Jerry's anymore to know that Ben was with me, because he was there, in the suit. Until I wasn't."

Tony was almost afraid to ask, but when the silence dragged on, he steeled himself.

"What do you mean?"

"I couldn't—can't—get into the suit anymore, Mr. Stark. It reminds me too much of—yeah. Of how I didn't do a good enough job, of how I almost had the gauntlet off, of how I could've saved those people if I wasn't—" he gasped. "Sorry."

"Is this why you wanted to… to get ice cream?"

Slowly Peter nodded. "I haven't had ice cream like this, with someone else, since he died. Not even with May. I guess that was kind of like our special thing. I mean I have, with Ned, but it was different… it wasn't like I was trying to push away the sadness when I was with Ned, you know? I used to think I would never get ice cream with someone again, because at first I thought I didn't need anyone else, and then I thought I had the suit. But then, I—you—you brought me back, Mr. Stark, and you fought Thanos, and you were the one who saw me—" he gulped. "So I thought, maybe, you know, it'd be nice if you could eat ice cream with me."

Morgan burped then. Tony patted her back, his mind a jumble.

"I'm not Ben," he finally croaked out.

Peter shook his head. "No," he agreed. "But you're you. And that's just as good." Then he grinned—wide and open and bashful. "I think... we're both kind of broken, Mr. Stark. But we're here, and people bothered to name ice cream after us, and... I dunno, I guess eating it with you made me able to taste things again. And I thought it might also… it might also help you."

The kid looked away, abruptly shy. "Did it… did it help? A little bit?"

Tony scooped up what remained of his cup of Black Chocolate Panther, and let the rich melted ball coat his tongue.

After New York he'd been paranoid. After Thanos he'd been broken. Even now, even after the Reversal, he sometimes woke up in cold sweat, grasping at Pepper lest she dusted away.

Perhaps this was just what he needed. Perhaps it was just his kid, a Sunday afternoon, and a dollop of ice cream.

"Yes," he said. "Yes it did."


End file.
